


The Devils Backbone

by braidedbootstraps



Category: Muppet Treasure Island (1996), Treasure Island - Robert Louis Stevenson
Genre: Devils backbone, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Okay so the mature comes later, Songfic, implied domestic abuse, older jim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 23:46:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28697169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braidedbootstraps/pseuds/braidedbootstraps
Summary: Three years after the events on treasure island, Jim is a scullery boy in the household of Squire Trelawney. Until one day, when face from the past makes an unexpected return.
Relationships: Jim Hawkins/John Silver, Jim Hawkins/Long John Silver (Muppets)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	The Devils Backbone

**Author's Note:**

> This is a five part fic based on the song devils backbone by the civil wars! Quite an over-referenced song for fanfics, however, it is truly perfect for Jim/Long John and I’ve not seen it done as of yet. Here’s a link to the song for those who’re interested: https://youtu.be/IHl1H1VECS8

_ Oh Lord, Oh Lord, what have I done? _

_ I've fallen in love with a man on the run _

_ Oh Lord, Oh Lord, I'm begging you please _

_ Don't take that sinner from me _

When Jim rose that morning, the light was stretched thin on the horizon. He straightened himself slowly and stretched, trying to get some feeling back into his toes. Autumn was fast approaching and the colour of the world outside was beginning to fade. 

He was out of bed as silent and light-footed as when he’d been a boy, although his circumstances had changed very little. Here he found himself, at twenty, in service and heartbroken. 

A little while after returning home to London, amidst the triumph of their success, the question was raised as to whether Jim had a place in the world to go. When quietly asked this question by the Captain, who in the last months had grown fond of the lad, he had no answer. The truth was Jim had nobody and nothing in the world beyond his clothes and simple earnings.

Captain Smollet had promised to see what he could do, and Jim had happily accepted, daring to hope for another placement in the company. Despite having spent two years abroad and adrift in the world, he itched to get back out into the open water. 

But when the good Captain approached him again, with Squire Tralawney at his side, Jim’s heart sank. Before he even knew the proposition, he felt in his bones it would not be as he hoped. But he swallowed his pride and remembered that out of his own kindness the Captain had sought out work for a lower class boy, worth little more than the shirt on his back.

When the Squire offered Jim a position as a scullery boy in his household, he accepted. 

Three years had passed since that day. Jim’s days began here, in the shadows of his below stairs bedroom. Sunlight crept through the servants quarters and gently lit the stone flags. Having dressed, Jim took a folded apron from his single wooden chair and fastened it. He had fires to light in the kitchen, and then pots to scrub.

It was decent work. Respectable. He had a living here, and though he’d only a few coppers, some savings. He would have an opportunity to rise in this household if he behaved, or seek employment elsewhere in London. The Squire would be sure to give Jim a good reference.

For nobody could say Jim did not work hard. Silently and faithfully he tended fires, cleaned pots and plates, scrubbed floors and peeled potatoes, just as he had done years ago at the old inn. 

The thought of it near drove him to tears some days. When he was given leave to do so, he’d taken to wandering London's street. He’d wanted to get to know this strange city he’d made a home in. But every path took him to the sea, and the dazzling horizon. How was it his feet knew where to take him, but his heart did not?

“There is nothing for you out there” he would quietly remind himself. “Nothing. Just murdering pirates.” 

And he would turn on his heel and be back below stairs, in his place, before dinner time. Knowing that he ought to be ashamed. That there was a storm within him that sought release. The kind of release only his old friend could inspire. 

Not since the days of the Hispaniola had Jim heard of Long John Silver. His name occasionally made the list of wanted criminals printed in the docks social paper. This Jim only saw when the other kitchen boys went to get baked potatoes and fish from the street over, and brought their suppers back in newspaper wrapping. 

They laughed at him for borrowing the newspapers before they threw them away. For they knew he could barely read. But John's name he knew. When he’d begun learning his letters at long last, his name was one of the first he spelled. 

Was John really his friend? Jim could never answer that question. Only say “yes sir” or “no sir” to the cook, and keep his head down, empty chamber pots and clean boots. If his old friends knew he questioned this still, they would sigh. They would tell him to not let his mind drift at sea, and forget him.

But how could he forget the man that pointed out Polaris to him. The man who showed him how to find himself, wherever he was. And chart a course, no matter the odds. 

He could forget John no more than he could forget the feeling of salt and sweat on his skin. No more than he could forget the taut muscles still forming around his legs and shoulders, from those days of freedom. Sand beneath his feet and laughter on his tongue could not so easily be banished by London and its respectability. 

When Jim started work that day, he was already tired. Tired of the looks the cook threw his way, and tired of not knowing what the other kitchen boys thought of this, or saw, or if they cared. Tired from the previous night of fitful sleep in which he caught glimpses of opal eyes. Tired of the day that lay before him and all it could offer.

Until he stepped into the kitchen and found the cook waiting. 

“Be a good lad and go to the market. Get two pounds of potatoes, and a bottle of gin.” His red fingers dropped a handful of coins into Jim’s palm.

“What about my other duties, Sir?” he whispered. The cook's breath was hot on his cheek. 

“One of the other boys will do them. Oh and-” his fingers trailed on the kitchen counter. He looked for a moment as if he’d like to grab Jim's arm, then thought better of it.

“... hide the gin bottle under the potatoes won’t you lad.”

Jim pressed his lips together. “Yes sir.” 

Before the cook could say anything else, he stepped back towards the door. Without even meeting the cooks eyes, he knew that step alone would earn him trouble later. But that was something he could deal with then. 

It was only a few moments later he found himself in the new morning, still shrugging himself into his leather coat. He raised a hand to shield his eyes from the bright sun. 

He was grateful, at the very least, that the cook's need for alcohol that morning was stronger than his need to inflict pain. 

  
  


The market was full of sailors off the docks and housemaids running errands. It was far too early in the day for the middle and upper classes to be out of bed and seeking distraction. A small smile crossed Jim’s lips. For a few short hours, the streets would belong to his sort of people.

Jim loved his friends of better means dearly, but those friends could never really know what it was like to live below stairs. They expected gratitude and hard work from boys like Jim, whilst never questioning the dangers they might be exposed to. 

He lingered in front of a notice board, and let the sack on potatoes under his arm rest for a moment by his foot. His eyes drifted from public notice to public notice. Until one caught his breath, forcing his eyes to stretch wide. 

‘INFORMATION WANTED: JOHN SILVER’ the notice declared. A crude ink sketch of John himself stretched beneath. ‘ _ A reward is offered to any person who shall seize and secure the man known as Long John Silver. Last seen on London Docks, 14th August 1756. Wanted for crimes of piracy, murder, looting, arson, sodomy and theft.’ _

August 14th was not two weeks ago. Jim felt a prickling around his collar, which suddenly seemed far too tight. Long John had been here, and the authorities were looking for him... __

Picking up the potatoes quickly, he turned back into the market. He wouldn’t let himself think about it now, or the whole day would pass by before he knew it and who knows what trouble he’d find himself in then. Jim knew how to save his worries. When he lay down that night and closed his eyes he’d have to imagine what fates could befall John.

_ “Coward” _ a voice in his head whispered. Jim bit down on his lip. He could not cry. He was too old, and besides, the voice was wrong. What was he supposed to do? What could he do? He survived. He made it from one day to the next and John was not his responsibility. He never had been. Just like Jim had never been John's responsibility.

He turned down a side street. He would take the road home that passed the waterfront of the thames. The sight of the open water would surely calm his nervous mind. One dark alleyway led into another, and the sounds of the crowd grew distant.

The only person responsible for Jim was Jim, now. The only person who cared about Jim was Jim, truly. He’d known that for years. He’d known it even before he’d met John, and Smollet and the Squire and the rest. 

He watched his feet, chin tucked in as though it would prevent the tears from falling. His quickened pace caused him to almost trip over a vagant, whose one leg sprawled across the alleyway and back slumped against the wall. 

“Oh! I’m sorry, I-” he turned, and froze. The sailor tipped back his head and stared at him with a bleary eye. Dirt streaked his weathered face, but he was just the same. 

He cracked a gleaming smile in the dark. 

“I know you lad… don’t I.”

  
  



End file.
